


Get Up With Fleas

by beautifultoastdream



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Blood, Dark!Hermione, Deal With the Devil, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, In a really messed-up way, Mutual enemy, Normal!Fenrir, Possible future ship, Werewolf, character death (mentioned), mention of suicide, tw: mentions of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27967934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifultoastdream/pseuds/beautifultoastdream
Summary: The war is over, and Dumbledore's Army has lost. As Hermione lies in the dungeon, waiting for the end, Voldemort begins to purge the other undesirables from his ranks--starting with the werewolves. Now sharing a prison with a violently unhappy Fenrir Greyback, Hermione sees a second chance to rise against the Dark Lord ... and this time, she has nothing left to lose.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Get Up With Fleas

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure why I like hero/villain ships. I'm not even sure this fic IS a shipping fic ... More an exploration of a scenario that could possibly lead to shipping, particularly with these two characters. And I like alternate universe/what-ifs, and I can't imagine that Voldemort would like having big hairy gross half-bloods hanging around, harshing his pureblood buzz.
> 
> This story has some weird, messed-up shit in it. I leave it to you to decide exactly what happened or will happen, so choose your own comfort level on this one. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it. :) 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and all associated properties and concepts are, of course, the property of J.K. Rowling. This is a work written out of love and respect for her universe, and I claim no ownership or profit from it.

Hermione lost count by the eighth day. No sunlight reached the dungeons underneath Hogwarts, and only the comings and goings—her jailers and her fellow prisoners—could hope to help her measure the time.

Twice a day, at first, select rebels were taken out for torture before the Dark Lord. That had been the last she saw of Luna and Charlie. By the fourth day, the frenzy escalated: prisoners were taken day or night, whenever the Dark Lord’s fancy struck, and only the rotations of the guards outside the cells could help Hermione guess at how much time had passed. But on the eighth day, chaos erupted. The guards were called away, and Hermione lost all track of time.

She was almost alone, now, curled up in the corner of the cell. The dungeons were dank and cold as ever. (Was that why Slytherins were always so unbearable? Always coming down with a chill? The thought amused her, even as she stifled her sobs in the coldest part of the night.) Most of the other cells were empty. One, at the far end, held what had once been Neville.

Harry was dead. Ron was dead. The alliance was shattered.

Dumbledore’s Army had failed.

Her, they were saving. For last, perhaps: the only remaining member of the so-called Golden Trio, the Mudblood witch who hadn’t had the sense to accept pureblood dominion. Three times she had been taken from her cell, and three times she awoke back in the darkness, wracked with the pain of the Cruciatus curse and God only knew what else. Once, she found blood on the insides of her thighs, and claw marks tracking down her back.

She was numb.

Sometime after the eighth day, a new prisoner was hurled into the cell next to her. A skinny, haunted-eyed boy her age.

The Dark Lord had run out of uses for Draco Malfoy.

He said nothing. He was battered half to death already; his left arm was broken, the flesh in tatters. Someone had skinned the limb to remove the Dark Mark. He sat hunched in the farthest corner, bent over his wounded limb, the bloody mass wrapped in the remnants of his Death Eater cloak.

For the first day, Hermione hated him. That was the day she awoke with blood on her naked thighs. She hissed cruel things at him, tears streaking her face, lip curling into a gargoyle’s grimace as she spat every insult and vile word at him she could. He said nothing. He only shook with cold.

In the middle of the night, he cried in his sleep. _Not Mother,_ he said. _I’ll do anything. But don’t hurt Mother._

Hot hatred couldn’t sustain itself in that damp chill.

On the second day, he stirred a little. Crawled to the bars. Lapped droplets of water where they had condensed on the iron. Hermione reached through and touched his hair, and he shivered but leaned into her hand.

She tore pages from the book she had been using to clean herself— _Hogwarts, A History._ The only other thing in the cell besides herself. Someone’s sense of humor, to leave the Mudblood a book. She tore out pages 144 to 151, wet them with water from the bars, and wrapped them around his skinned arm, smoothing the flesh into place underneath the makeshift bandage. He said nothing. The flesh under her hands was already taut and hot, swollen. Malfoy’s forehead was beaded with sweat. Fever.

She didn’t have her wand. Her wandless magic was shite. Two hours of casting, repeating the same spell over and over again in a hoarse rasp, produced only one meager Cooling Charm. Malfoy was already unconscious again.

He died some time that night. The next morning, two Inferi dragged his corpse out of the cell. She wondered if they would throw him into the same pit as his parents, or if his parents still lived. If Draco Malfoy was dead, then the Dark Lord was prepared to purge his own ranks.

One more Cruciatus session. The Dark Lord liked to watch her wail and bend, groveling before him to end the pain. Sooner or later, he would throw her to his monsters and have done with her; for now, she was still worth something as a symbol of the resistance he had defeated.

Before she passed out, she sometimes heard scraps of their conversation. Plans they were making. Steps the Dark Lord intended to take. The United Kingdom and its magical society were not enough to satisfy the soulless snake, and his forces were expanding rapidly. Ambitious wizards from all over the world were flocking to join his ranks. Were they pureblooded? By some standards, yes. Many wizards existed who could prove generations of magical ancestry. Those who could not would doubtless be purged in their turn.

When the first one from Australia turned up to pledge his service, Hermione broke. No Cruciatus was required this time: she fell to her knees before the Dark Lord, begging him for mercy for the Muggles. He extended his hand; she kissed it, and he made a show of washing away her taint. He gave no other answer. The Muggles would not be spared.

A better quality of jailer began to appear. Lesser-ranked Death Eaters, purebloods with insufficiently high status, were shunted away from the Dark Lord’s presence and into the grunt work of guard duty and prisoner handling. Hermione eyed their wands and hoped they would be more careless than their predecessors, but it was a strange and distant hope, like a child wondering if Father Christmas would bring what they wanted. A thought purely in the realm of fantasy.

More and more, she began to slip. The edges of the world blurred. She lay on the cold floor, naked except for the day’s blood, and watched the crack of light under the door.

The dungeons seemed to be the place where life bled away. Slowly. Coldly. Dripping away. The thing that had been Neville died, quietly, and it took four changes of the guard for anyone to discover it. They dragged him away, and Hermione watched them go, quietly and without feeling.

Every sensation came to her distantly now, as if through a cloth or a Muffliato charm. Even torture seemed to be of less importance. The Dark Lord was growing bored with how broken she was now. Sooner or later, she would be killed, or thrown to one of his pets.

_Hung up in the Great Hall, like Harry …_

A sob caught in her throat. At least she’d be reunited with her friends in death.

* * *

A roar woke her from her dazed sleep.

It sounded as if someone were wrestling a wild animal in the corridor. Several someones. And they were losing. The wet sounds of tearing flesh and breaking bone echoed almost as loudly as the screams and the howling of the deranged creature.

 _“Petrificus Totalus!”_ someone cried. The words were drowned out by another roar. _“Petrificus Totalus,_ you fucking mutt! _Down!”_

The last _down_ ended in a choking gurgle. A body fell to the floor.

Hermione’s eyes opened at last. She didn’t move from her place, huddled in the corner of the cell, but for the first time in days, her heart beat faster. She had no fear: it was gone, quietly dripped out of her along with the endless drops of blood. If death came for her, it was welcome. But outside in the corridor, Death Eaters were suffering.

Her lips cracked as they curved into a smile.

Half a dozen other curses and binding charms failed to subdue the creature. Even _Imperius_ gave only a temporary reprieve. At last, they settled for battering it senseless.

The door opened, filling the cells with the weak light of a single candle. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, dazzled by the tiny flame.

Booted feet shuffled in, carrying something heavy. She heard rasping breathing, deep and rough, from a chest larger than an ordinary man’s. The silky slide of Death Eater robes, the squeak of leather, and the rustle of … polyester? Nylon? Some plasticky Muggle fabric.

Hermione’s mind began to slowly come awake, as if rising up from the depths of a well. She opened her eyes the merest fraction, watching the scene through her lashes.

Three Death Eaters were dragging an enormous man into the cell opposite her. He wore only torn, stained tracksuit bottoms, and his feet were bare. Dark blood trailed behind him.

All of the Death Eaters were panting and wounded. One stood back: she vaguely recognized him, not knowing his name but remembering a new face from the Great Hall. Some continental wizard, who had received his Dark Mark while Hermione was laid out on the ground, half-conscious. He now clutched his face with one hand, palm pressed against his eye socket. Blood streamed freely between his fingers. His wand had been snapped in half, and part of it was missing.

“Fucking animal,” said the Death Eater. Hermione couldn’t place his accent—Italian? Her mind was waking, piece after piece, neuron after neuron. “It’s about time. I wonder that the Dark Lord could stand your smell for as long as he did.”

A weak rumble came from the beaten prisoner. The two Death Eaters dragging him dropped him and stepped back, slamming the door and activating the locking charms with almost indecent haste.

Whatever was in that cell, it had mauled them badly. And they were still afraid of it.

Hermione watched, almost not daring to breathe.

“Better get to the healers,” said one of the two to the foreign wizard. “If you’re lucky, they’ll be able to save that eye. Hope you like your steak rare, though. None of us are coming away untainted from this.”

“Perhaps you are not,” said the foreign wizard curtly. “We of the ancient blood are made of stronger stuff. But the beast broke my wand. For that, I’ll have him gelded before he dies.”

“Your choice,” said the other of the two. He sounded vaguely familiar, but Hermione couldn’t place him. Parts of her brain were still sluggish. “But I’ll be taking wolfsbane, just in case. Fucking mutt got me good.”

The foreign wizard snarled something Hermione didn’t catch as the two Death Eaters passed out of the cell. He hurled his broken wand half at their backs. It rebounded from the stone and bounced away, into the darkness.

Hermione’s heart leaped.

* * *

For a long time afterwards, she lay still. Her pulse was out of control, her heart pounding, but she forced herself to remain in her accustomed place. An hour at least: she reeled off the seconds and minutes inside her head. She immediately lost count and her timing grew hopelessly jumbled once more.

But she must be patient. She must.

Her eyes remained fixed on the shadowed corner where the half-wand had fallen.

At last, when the guard had changed for the evening and everything was as calm as could be, Hermione began to sob. She sobbed loudly and brokenly, her throat aching, mixing Muggle prayers and whimpers to her long-dead friends. The chilled, dead part of her soul conjured up the names in an endless list, obligingly presenting her with the memories guaranteed to draw authentic tears. She whimpered Harry’s name, and Ron’s. Outside, the Death Eater guard chuckled to himself and murmured something about Mudbloods.

He didn’t know that her sobs were covering the sounds of tearing paper.

She tore handfuls out of _Hogwarts, A History._ If this failed, she’d have no more need of what remained of the book. She bound and twisted the strips of paper, winding them tightly until they formed stiff shapes.

A hysterical laugh almost escaped among the sobs. She remembered sitting with her parents on the sofa, watching Muggle TV—a documentary about violent American prisons and their terrible conditions. Prisoners making weapons out of anything, even hardened paper. Perhaps the Americans had had a good idea for once.

She twisted and twisted, and her paper braid began to grow. Long and flexible, but hard enough to hold its own shape. She had gone all the way through the Renaissance era of the book by the time it was long enough.

Her throat was raw and painful with sobbing, but she couldn’t stop now. If she stopped, she would have to hide what she had done … Under her body, perhaps. But what if they took her away again, and broke her in front of the Dark Lord once more? The thought of that chill, that deadness, taking her again when she had almost formed a plan … Unbearable.

 _No._ She had to find another way to make noise.

Hermione jammed a ball of paper into her mouth and chewed, wetting it thoroughly with her saliva. She spat it into her hand and flicked it across the aisle at the prisoner in the opposite cage.

It worked beautifully. The battered prisoner came alive with a roar, snarling furiously as he sought for his attacker. He reeked of blood, and what little she could see of him in the light from under the door showed her a face swollen and battered beyond all recognition. But he stretched his jaws wider than any human being should and _howled,_ glistening fangs bared, and the Death Eaters outside flung curses at him—the obscene kind, not the magical kind—and pounded on the walls, bellowing at him to be quiet.

Hermione moved as quickly as she could. The dark corner was only a few arms-lengths away, but for her, it might have been on the other side of the world. She paid out her paper stick, prodding at the darkness, straining her ears for the click and clatter of wood on stone.

It felt like a lifetime before she caught it. Slowly, slowly, her weak body aching with even this sustained effort, she drew in the paper stick she had made.

The Italian wizard’s half-wand rolled into her cell.

She barely had time to scoop it up before the door began to rattle. She seized the wand and pressed it between her thighs, praying she wouldn’t have to resort to hiding it any place else. Her paper pole she folded in half and lay down on, drawing up her knees to hide its awkward shape. She didn’t bother covering her breasts: the Death Eaters sometimes laughed to see her lying there, naked, and the less they thought of her the less closely they would look.

The door burst open. A trio of Death Eaters swirled into the dungeon, wands at the ready. Her unhappy jailmate bellowed in fury and swiped at the nearest one, forcing one thick arm between the narrow bars and catching the edge of the Death Eater’s robe.

“Disgusting,” the Death Eater said, whisking her robe out of the prisoner’s reach. “This has been a long time coming, beast.”

“His Lordship has been far too kind to these creatures.” That was another Death Eater, mild-voiced, as if commenting on the weather. _“_ _Stupefy.”_

The light of Stunners filled the dungeon, and Hermione once more squeezed her eyes shut. She could hear the hiss and crackle of magic, and the noises from the man in the cell. She shook to hear it: it had gone beyond roaring and howling into wailing, the sound of a dog desperate to bite off its own trapped leg.

At last, the man collapsed again. The Death Eaters swept out, already talking among themselves about the planned social event for the evening.

And Hermione was alone with half a wand. And Fenrir Greyback.

* * *

It was him. The light of the Stunners had revealed what part of her already knew: the monstrous creature locked a breath away from her was the world’s most notorious werewolf, the serial killer.

He’d lost his Death Eater robes at some point. No need to skin _his_ arm: he’d never received the Mark, never been considered a full member of the Dark Lord’s army. Had he really thought he could go along with them, even when purebloods were being purged?

Hermione had never seen a dog so mangy.

He had been systematically and thoroughly tortured. Someone had taken advantage of a werewolf’s regenerative ability and removed one digit at a time, seeing what could grow back. Half his hair was gone, torn out with half his scalp, and what remained was slicked flat to his skull in a mass of grease and dried blood. Several of his teeth were only tiny white chips in his jawline: fangs growing back after being knocked out. The jaw had been broken several times and healed crooked.

The great monster, the bogeyman of wizards everywhere, could not stand. But though he’d been battered with Stunners, some cursed, hate-filled part of him refused to submit. He lay on the stone floor, motionless, but his yellow eyes were fixed on Hermione.

She crawled to the edge of her cell and pressed her face to the bars.

“They’re going to die,” she whispered to him.

A low, pained growl rumbled in the depths of his chest. She saw a flash of fang as his lips peeled back in a vicious grin.

Hermione had no desire to comfort this monster. She knew what he had done, and what he would have done to her. The memory of those same eyes, watching her at Malfoy Manor, would have been enough to send a shiver of disgust through her … But the war was lost, and parts of Hermione Jean Granger had been lost with it. The specter of what evil things he would have done to her no longer frightened her.

Her days were numbered. The Dark Lord was bored with her. The question only remained how she would die.

And how many of the bastards she would take with her.

She raised the half-wand. Greyback’s eyes tracked it, widening slightly. In his animalistic fury, he hadn’t even seen her pull it into her cell.

Greyback was a wizard, though the wolf had overwhelmed whatever he ought to have been. She had seen him cast spells, even once working wandless magic during the vicious fights with the Snatchers. The brute had a brain, and it had made him all the more dangerous. He knew as well as she did that a half-wand could not rescue her. A half-wand was only a guaranteed disaster, an explosion waiting to happen.

Hermione’s heart raced. She twirled the wand between her fingertips, her eyes on Greyback’s. Whatever spell she chose, she was going to die. This was a Death Eater’s wand, infused with that Death Eater’s hatred of all that was impure. It would seek to destroy her. And if she chose her last spell correctly, like a _Bombarda maxima,_ she would blow a hole in the castle and take several Death Eaters with her.

“They’re going to die,” she said again to him. Careful to avoid the S sounds, which hissed in a whisper and were apt to be heard by guards. “If I pick the right magic. We’ll go quickly. No pain."

Greyback’s hackles raised. He fought to lift his head.

“No,” he said. “Can’t give up, girlie. Waiting for me.”

Waiting for him? Who? His army of murderous werewolves? Hermione hoped they would wait for eternity. In moments, Greyback would be blasted to infinity along with her, and not even a werewolf could regenerate from that.

“I’m not giving up,” she said. “I’m making a plan. The war is over, and we’re going to die. The only thing to do is pick how many we take with us.”

Dammit! An S had slipped out. She bit her lip and waited, every muscle tense. Greyback’s eyes had flicked to the door.

No Death Eater interrupted. Hermione’s shoulders untensed the barest fraction. Her heard was pounding like a jackhammer; she was certain Greyback could hear it. His eyes returned to hers.

“Wait,” he rasped. “Wait.”

With great effort, he raised his own body. Hermione could hear the crack of bone, the pattering of tiny particles as scabs broke open and fell away. A fresh smell of blood rolled across the narrow aisle towards her.

Fenrir Greyback raised one hand. Clutched in its massive fingers was the other half of the wand.

“Little ‘un,” he said, a fierce grin on his face. She saw what he meant: the Death Eater’s completed wand had been barely eight inches long, easily concealed in pieces.

Hope, terrible in its promise, bloomed in her chest.

“Give that to me!” she whispered. Greyback shook his head.

“You’re weak. Dead soon, girlie. Give that one to me.”

“And what exactly are you going to do with it?” she hissed fiercely. Both had forgotten the danger of the S. “Fight your way out? You can’t. Your whole pack is going to be public enemy number one!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Greyback bared his fangs. A whiff of halitosis joined the reek of blood, making Hermione recoil. He chuckled low in his throat, clearly pleased with how he had seemingly frightened her. “Gonna get back to ‘em. Just need to Apparate. We’ll show this shower of pureblood cunts what werewolves can do.”

“So you’ll attack their children and frighten them,” Hermione shot back, struggling to keep her voice low. “You’ve worked with them for years, Greyback. They know your tricks. They know you. They know every member of your pack! They’ll hunt you down just like they did to the Muggleborns, and turn you into a rug in the Dark Lord’s sitting room!”

A snarl erupted from Greyback. “Mind your mouth, _Mudblood,_ or I’ll close it for good!”

Hermione leaned forward, clutching the bars. “Face it, Greyback,” she hissed. “You’re not a tactical thinker. If you just go back to your pack, you have to run, _fast._ The Dark Lord hates you as much as he hates people like me!”

“And what would you do with the wand?” Greyback rasped. “Where would you go, girlie? Your little army is _dead._ Saw their blood on my claws. They tasted weak and they died scared. What’re you going to do?”

Hermione flinched. Greyback’s fangs were bared, his expression venomous. The big hands curled round the bars were growing hairier, his yellow nails lengthening into claws. In the gloom, he was something out of a primitive campfire story, and the back of Hermione’s brain screamed at her to _run away!_

A monster. A murderer. A cannibal. Probably a rapist, to judge by the stories she had heard.

But right now, he was the only one left who hated Voldemort as much as she did.

“I’ll go with you,” she whispered.

A bark of laughter startled her back from the bars. She flinched, but no Death Eater intruded yet. Their luck would run out soon, though Greyback didn’t seem to care.

“You really do want to die,” he said.

“I want the Dark Lord dead,” she replied quietly. Her hand clenched around the half-wand. “And so do you. And right now, neither of us can do it alone.”

The yellow eyes narrowed. He said nothing, but the long, pointed ears were pricked.

“I was part of the rebellion’s innermost circle. I worked alongside potion masters and experts in the Dark Arts. I’ve memorized more of the Hogwarts Restricted Section than anyone alive. I can carry supplies for an army in a handbag.” Her voice was level, calm: she might have been listing her qualifications during a job interview. “I have tactical acumen and existing connections in the remnants of the human resistance. If your pack is going to survive the Dark Lord hunting them, you’ll need every possible advantage. You’ll need _me_ to help you protect the werewolves. _”_

The yellow eyes flicked over her. Weighing her up. Greyback said nothing, but his hackles relaxed as he watched her.

Cautious, cautious monster. Self-interested to a fault and stupid, but not too stupid. He wouldn’t have survived as a werewolf pack leader if he couldn’t jump on a good opportunity when he saw it … Whether it was a chance to savage a mark or rise alongside a budding dark magical dictator.

“Make an Unbreakable Vow with me,” she said. “Vow that you’ll protect me and not kill me or turn me into a werewolf. In return, I will vow that I’ll use my knowledge and skills to aid you in protecting your werewolf pack and destroying the Dark Lord forever.”

Greyback licked his lips.

Hermione gazed back at him, determined and steady.

Greyback rose to his feet. He was nearly seven feet tall, a deformed bulk of human and animal muscle, scarred and caked in blood and dirt. He reeked of death.

“Need a witness,” he said. “For a Vow.”

Hermione held his stare.

“Draw in one of the guards. They like it when you do something they can punish you for.” Her voice remained level, flat. “They won’t send one guard in if you seem like a threat, so you’ll need to act weak. Bash him against the bars a few times and give me your half of the wand. Better yet, give me his wand if it survives the beating. We can use him as a witness, kill him, and Apparate to your pack.”

The lips curled back from the jagged fangs. “Who’s to say he’ll play along, girlie? Unwilling witness won’t seal the Vow.”

“No,” Hermione conceded. “He won’t. But a semiconscious man with a severe concussion isn’t mentally able to object to anything or register unwillingness. The Vow will stick.” She took a deep breath. “And if you’re thinking about taking his wand and Apparating, remember that I still have my half, and I’m quite willing to die to take some of them with me.”

“You’ve got a nasty mind, Mudblood.” His tongue lolled out, tasting the air. “Might just keep you after all.”

“So long as the Dark Lord is dead.” Hermione sat down against the bars, cross-legged, and regarded the werewolf coolly. His eyes flicked over her again, registering her nakedness, and an ugly grin crawled across his face.

“Vicious, vicious little Mudblood,” he purred. Then he sprawled down on the floor of his cell, bit his own wrist until blood began to flow fresh once more, and howled like a beaten dog.

The door slammed open, and a Death Eater entered the dungeon.

Hermione smiled.

END


End file.
